


well you can't get what you want (but you can get me)

by WhirlyBot



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, idk they're both getting over lost loves while falling for each other, let these two be happy and loved please that's all i ask, somewhat linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhirlyBot/pseuds/WhirlyBot
Summary: He's so, so tired of being lonely.





	well you can't get what you want (but you can get me)

Oswald stares into the icy prison, eyes fixed on the man he once loved.

He wonders if Ed can see him, hear him. 

It doesn't matter. The villain won't be escaping, ever. Victor is nothing if not efficient. 

Speaking of the frosty figure, he's been distant all day. Even Firefly can't drag him out. Despite their warring elements, they've become good friends.

"Six months," Oswald says out loud, "since you broke my heart a second time."

He narrows his eyes at Edward's pleading pose, arms outstretched and mouth open in a defiant yell.

"I could never have forgiven you. The acid trap, the humiliation, everything might have been forgotten, given time. But killing me?" Oswald feels the familiar wetness in his eyes and blinks it away furiously. "There was no coming back from that. Even so..."

He has to pause and recollect himself. "Even so, when I came back, I expected you to win. A part of me wanted you to regret what you'd done. If you hadn't pulled that trigger, I might have– maybe I could have loved you again."

He swallows the lump in his throat, placing a quivering hand against the ice. "But you chose wrong."

His hand is turning blue from cold, so he quickly removes it.

"Life only gives you one true love, Ed. I must admit, I'm not too happy that my chance was wasted on you," Oswald snarls.

"Monologuing again, boss?"

Oswald jumps ten feet, startled by Victor's voice. "A little warning would be nice," he spits, turning to face the taller man. He's leaning against the wall, bulky suit puffing clouds of dry ice.

"Sorry." He does not sound very sorry at all. "I figured you'd be in here."

"And why is that?" Oswald asks, knowing full well the answer.

Victor shrugs, wise enough to avoid opening old wounds.

"Have you been outside?" Oswald is partly curious, partly desperate to change the subject.

"Yes," Victor admits, "it's the anniversary of my wife's death. I tried to visit her grave, but it was surrounded by GCPD. I think they were expecting me to show up."

"Ah," Oswald says.

"Mhm," Victor replies. "Anyway, do you need a moment? It seems like you were in the middle of something." He nods at the indignant ice cube. 

Oswald takes a deep breath, thinking over his next course of action. "No," he says finally, "I'm all done here."

"If you say so." Victor's tone is skeptical. "Why do you come in here so much if you get cold so easily?"

Oswald looks down at his layers of fur coats and scarves. He hears the unspoken continuation of the question. _Why do you come in here if he hurt you so badly?_

If it were anyone else, Oswald would ignore them and leave with a derisive look. He should do the same to Victor, really. But he's still thinking of the other man's words. "I suppose it's just a sense of unfinished business."

Victor is staring at him. "I know what it's like to lose someone."

Oswald's eyes widen, and anger stirs in his heart. "I didn't lose him," he snaps, "he lost _me._ "

This time, he listens to his better judgment and shoves past Victor without another word.

❄️

Oswald is well and truly pissed. 

"I am Gotham's kingpin. Barbara is dead. Butch is incapacitated. The Riddler is, as most everyone knows, the centerpiece of my club. For all intents and purposes, I should be hiring the best guards in Gotham. So _how,_ may I ask, has Jim Gordon managed to infiltrate Ivy's garden and _destroy three months' worth of her perfume?"_

He feels Victor and Bridgit shift behind him, unnerved by his outburst. He doesn't care. At the moment, he is preoccupied with the two incompetent guards in front of him, shaking with fear. 

"I know they bribed you," he continues, calmer, "but it couldn't have been with money, because I have it. So how?"

"Protection," the younger one gasps out, "he promised to get our families out of Gotham. My husband, and our son." 

"My parents, and my three daughters." The other sobs.

Oswald pauses, stills the switchblade he'd been twirling in his fingers. "What?"

Victor, never one to interrupt, speaks up. "You gave up your lives to save the people you loved."

"Don't say it like that, you make it sound noble," Oswald complains. "They're traitors all the same."

"Yes, but–"

"But nothing," he growls, "they knew the price of betraying me."

"Oswald," Victor says, and he's about to snap at the frozen man about questioning his authority, but then he _understands._

He has vaguely pieced together the origin of Mr. Freeze, but only now does everything fall into place. He remembers the fear he'd felt when he thought Ed had been kidnapped, and knows just how much he would have sacrificed.

Oswald curses the shred of conscience he has left. "Oh, alright." 

The guards cower as he approaches with the knife, but terror gives way to confusion as Oswald cuts the ropes that bind them.

"Go," he sneers, "and never set foot in Gotham again."

They're out of the mansion before Oswald can blink. 

When he turns around, Bridgit is slinking off to wherever she likes to hide out, and Victor is looking at him strangely.

"This never happened," Oswald says fiercely.

Victor nods and opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"What now?" Oswald never claimed  
to be a patient man.

"Thank you," Victor says, "for letting them go."

"Yes, well." Oswald finds himself flustered under Victor's piercing gaze. "They were just looking out for their loved ones."

He wants to smack himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. He's sworn to never let love weaken him again, and here he is, taking pity on guards who betrayed him to save their families.

Hm. It _would_ have been rather distasteful to kill them now that he's taking a moment to think about it.

Deciding that he's had quite enough soul searching for the day, he dismisses Victor and tries to think of nothing at all.

❄️

Oswald is dying again. 

No. Wait.

After a moment of assessment, he figures that he isn't, not yet at least, but if he lays out here for much longer his original prediction will most likely come true.

He finds the strength to be annoyed. Dying during a GCPD raid, on the floor of his very own club, is terribly undignified. 

Dimly he recalls that Ivy escaped quickly, charming several officers on her way out. He's relieved that she's safe. Firefly is at the mansion to make sure none of the police have tried to break in there, and Freeze... he can't remember.

The sounds of fighting are fading, and Oswald can't decide whether people are dying or he's losing consciousness.

Someone gurgles and coughs, and then there's a loud thump and the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. To Oswald's relief, they're accompanied by familiar metal whirring.

"One day I won't be here to save you," Victor grunts, sliding his hands under Oswald's legs and upper back. "And then what are you going to do?" 

The sudden temperature change makes Oswald's muscles seize up, sending more pain shooting down his side. He grits his teeth and refuses to show it.

"Shut up," Oswald sniffs, shivering as Victor lifts him and his side presses against cold metal. "Ivy or Bridgit could aid me just as easily."

"I'm sure," Victor deadpans. "Although Bridgit could cauterize this wound."

Oswald cringes at the thought of Firefly's flamethrower anywhere near his bloodied side. " _Damn_ Jim Gordon," he mutters, "and damn the whole GCPD."

"My thoughts exactly," Victor huffs as he makes his way to the car. He attempts to place Oswald in the passenger seat, but his suit makes the task cumbersome, and he ends up dropping him into the dashboard.

"Ow," Oswald wheezes, gripping at his side. 

"Sorry," Victor apologizes as he gets into the driver's seat. "Do you, uh, need more help?"

Oswald waves him away. "I seem to have made a habit of getting shot," he coughs out between attempts to pull himself into the seat, "and I must say I don't enjoy it."

He gives up on any sort of comfort, going limp, sprawled out half on Victor's lap and half on the passenger seat.

"Do you mind?" Victor asks. "This is going to make it extremely difficult to drive."

"Well, this bullet is making it extremely difficult to _live,"_ Oswald snarks, "so I think you can manage."

"You're bleeding out and still being a pain in the ass? Can't say I'm surprised." 

Oswald ignores the insult. "If any of the wine is missing when we take back the Lounge, there'll be hell to pay."

Victor chuckles. "I'm sure there will."

Victor's icy presence isn't helping Oswald's already near-violent shaking. He seems to realize this, tearing down the road even faster.

"You're going to crash," Oswald slurs, vision blurring. 

"Trust me," Victor says.

And inexplicably, Oswald does.

❄️

It's one of those rare, good nights when there's been no disturbances in the Gotham underground. Fitting, Oswald thinks, for the Iceberg Lounge's one year anniversary of being open. 

The club is hopping, and Oswald has, with much reluctance, had to stop several young up-and-coming criminals from defacing their main attraction. It would serve Ed right, but cleaning the ice would be a hassle.

Oswald and his three friends are celebrating in the VIP room, away from the almost oppressively drunk atmosphere. 

It's strange that even a few month ago, Oswald still hesitated to call them anything but henchmen, colleagues at best. Ed's betrayal has left ugly scars that are still painful.

But as Oswald raises a toast, his heart warms. Bridgit is having a blast with setting her cocktails on fire, already fizzgiggly and tipsy. Ivy, who they've expressly forbidden to drink, sips on her Shirley Temple with a sour expression. 

He glances at Victor, who's clutching a bottle of vodka. With mild concern, he watches Victor tip the bottle back and chug. Oswald isn't sure how body temperature relates to alcohol tolerance, but that much can't be good for _anyone._

Victor finishes with a sigh, then licks his lips. Oswald finds his eyes drawn to light blue lips. He's noted Victor's attractiveness before, of course, but not in such a relaxed environment. 

Ed's face flashes in Oswald's mind, and he turns away, downing the rest of his wine.

Bridgit falls off her chair, and Ivy stands up. "I'm gonna take Bridgit to rest somewhere quiet, okay? God, I take back what I said about drinking. You old people can keep it for yourselves." With some difficulty, she helps the stumbling girl to her feet, and they shuffle out of the room.

And just like that, Oswald and Victor are alone.

"Is it uncomfortable?" Oswald asks suddenly, emboldened by the wine. "You know, all that?" He taps on the shoulder of the metal suit.

Victor shrugs. "Most of the time. I prefer to stay in my room."

"You're shirtless when you're in your room," Oswald supplies helpfully.

"Yes," Victor says, looking confused, "it makes me colder."

"I've never been in your room," Oswald sighs mournfully.

"It would kill you after a few minutes if you were dressed like that." Victor says, pointing out Oswald's elegant purple suit. "But if you feel like wearing ten layers of clothes, feel free to drop by."

"It's not fair you have to stay in a robot suit," Oswald pouts, "and it's not fair I can't be close to you without being cold."

Victor only acknowledges the first part of Oswald's sentence. "I deserve it," he says quietly, "it's my punishment. For killing Nora."

"Your wife?" Oswald is drunk, yes, but not enough to forget the important things.

"Yes," Victor confirms, vodka clearly beginning to affect him. "She was sick and dying, and I tried so hard to hold on that I drove her to suicide."

"Do you still love her?" Oswald isn't sure why he asks, but he feels like he needs to.

"Of course," Victor says, "I always will."

"Okay." Oswald knows that if he says anything else, he'll regret it.

"Do you still love Ed?"

If anyone else had asked, Oswald would have clawed their eyes out, or worse. But there's something here in this moment, between these two men who have suffered more than anyone should, and he is honest.

"No."

Victor smiles. "Good."

They leave it at that.

❄️

The Riddler has escaped. 

Oswald doesn't question the _how's_ and _why's_ and _when's._ He's consumed by rage, unable to do anything but scream and smash the sad remains of Ed's iceberg.

His hands are bruised and bleeding as he scratches weakly at the shattered ice. He's on his knees, bad leg shaking and sore, but he ignores the external pain for the agony in his soul.

"You couldn't let me be happy, could you?" He whispers the question. "Even when I thought I won, you came out on top."

The ice reveals nothing. 

"Damn you," he curses, voice cracking, "why couldn't you have loved me back? It would have saved both of us so much pain. I didn't care how much of a monster you were. I'm a monster too."

Someone clears their throat behind him, and he whirls around, ready to shriek at them to get out, but he stops when he sees Victor's icy eyes.

"We didn't find him," Victor says, "I'm sorry."

"You apologize too much," Oswald croaks, voice weak from screaming. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough." Victor takes a single step forward. "You told me, once, that you didn't love him anymore. Was that a lie?"

"No," Oswald replies, and means it. "I wish I was, though. I wish I was still mayor, I wish that stupid woman never existed, I wish–" he cuts himself off, aware that he's half delirious with grief and fury.

"You have an empire. He can't change that."

"I don't want pity."

"I don't pity you."

"Really." Oswald stands on wobbly legs, wiping his hands on his already dirty waistcoat.

"Really," Victor confirms, "I don't work with you out of pity. I do it because of respect."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Victor." Oswald looks away. "But I don't think anyone of importance in the underground respects me right now."

"They will," Victor comforts, approaching him carefully. Oswald flinches back when a cold, metal-enclosed hand grips his shoulder. "Listen. I know you're strong. Gotham knows you are strong. But right now, just for a minute, you don't have to be."

Victor is close enough that Oswald can feel the dry ice puffing out of his suit. He feels angry tears welling up, and this time, he lets them fall.

"I hate him," he breathed, "he's making my life hell."

"I hate him too" Victor says, drawing Oswald closer to him, "for doing this to you."

It's a tentative thing they have. Something new and hopeful that's been slowly manifesting over the months. Neither are willing to push it, too afraid of shattering whatever it has the potential to become.

But Oswald is hurting, and Victor is right here, and fuck it, he's so, so tired of being lonely.

He presses his bloodied hands to Victor's chest and leans forward, closes his eyes and _hopes._

He knows how dangerous hope can be. It's destroyed him time and time again.

But as Victor's freezing lips press against his own, Oswald believes that just sometimes, hope can be a beautiful thing.

It's not an _I love you_. It's not even close. It's a _maybe,_ an _I'm willing to try,_ and it is infinitely better than any _might have been._

Most importantly, it is enough.


End file.
